PAUL'S DEFENCE
The next morning the trial was resumed, and to the surprise of many it
did not come to an end that day. Many other witnesses were called
which at first were unthought of, and thus the case was dragged out to
what seemed to Paul an interminable length. On the third day, however,
the examinations were concluded, and Mr. Bakewell rose to address the
jury on the evidence which had been given. Some spoke of his speech
afterwards as one of the finest that had ever been delivered in
Manchester, while others declared it to be devilish in its cleverness,
but that, in view of the fact that the prisoner would have no one to
defend him, it was unfair. One eminent counsel, who would gladly have
taken Paul's case, said that it was the custom of counsel for
prosecution in the case of murder to seek to give absolute fair play to
the prisoner, and to suppress nothing which might tell in his favour,
but that it seemed to be the set purpose of Mr. Bakewell to secure a
sentence of death for Paul, just as he would try to secure a verdict in
favour of any client for whom he was trying to obtain damages. But
this was mentioned in private, and could, of course, have no weight
with the jury. Certain it is that he made a very strong case against
Paul. He opened his speech with the usual remarks about the
seriousness of the case before them and the difficulty he had in
approaching it in the right spirit. He also admitted that Paul was a
young man who bore a good character in the town, and had so far secured
public favour as to be rewarded with the highest measure of confidence
with which any town could reward him. But having said all that, it was
his duty to deal with the facts which had been brought before them, and
it was for the jury to say whether, in the face of that evidence, the
prisoner was not guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused.
He referred to the fact that the prisoner had chosen to defend himself,
and as a consequence lessened hid chances of acquittal, but they had
also to consider the inwardness of that fact. What was the prisoner's
reason for being undefended? It was not that he could not afford to
obtain the most eminent counsel at the criminal bar, or because he was
not advised by the judge to secure such counsel. An innocent man had
nothing to hide. It was only the guilty who sought to shelter himself
behind silence. He would like to testify to the prisoner's ability in
cross-examination and of his power to nullify the force of certain
evidence which told against him. But they had not to deal with
sophistries. They had to deal with the hard facts which had been
submitted to them. These facts he enumerated one by one, dealing with
the evidence which had been given in support of them. He admitted that
there might be certain difficulties in their way, certain things hard
to explain, and which could only be explained by the prisoner. Still,
certain facts remained--facts upon which they would have to judge.
Presently came the summing-up of his speech, and it was here that Mr.
Bakewell justified the reputation he had won as one of the cleverest of
criminal lawyers. Everything in Paul's disfavour was set before them
in cold, clear, terse language. One point after another was emphasised
with terrible precision, and so great was the impression made that it
seemed as though both judge and jury could see only with his eyes. All
the things which appeared as difficulties were apparently removed. The
facts of the case pointed to one man as the murderer of Edward Wilson,
and that one man was Paul Stepaside. Mr. Bakewell seemed to be under
strong emotion, but that very emotion strengthened the impression which
he had made, especially when he spoke of the sacredness of human life,
spoke of the terrible responsibility of a jury in condemning a prisoner
to death. Nevertheless, he seemed to make it impossible for them to do
anything else. When he sat down it seemed as though the scaffold were
already erected, and the ghastly rope swinging from it.
Of course, the court was again crowded almost to suffocation. Mr.
Bakewell had spoken for more than two hours, and during the whole time
the interest had been intense, the excitement almost overwhelming.
Whenever he paused it seemed as though they could hear the wings of the
Angel of Death fluttering over them. Women sobbed aloud, strong men
breathed forth quivering sighs. Even the barristers who sat watching
the case, and who as a rule regarded murder cases with an air of
nonchalance, could not hide their emotion. Everything seemed to be
prejudged. No evidence had been adduced strong enough to save the
prisoner, and each juryman, who sat with eyes fixed upon the eloquent
counsel, looked as though there were only one thing to do, and that was
to pronounce the word "Guilty."
Paul had sat during the whole time of the delivery of this speech,
listening to every word with breathless eagerness. Never until that
day had he realised how near death was to him. Throughout the whole
trial he had never really believed that the jury could find him guilty.
Now, however, it seemed as though they could do nothing else. Never
had he felt his loneliness as he felt it then. The judge did not seem
to be a man, but merely a legal machine, uninfluenced by great
emotions, and considering his case only as a case. No one had been to
see him since the trial had recommenced under Judge Branscombe, save
the warders and the chaplain. In one way he was glad it was so, but in
another he longed for society, longed for comfort. Eagerly on each
morning of the trial had he looked around the court, dreading yet
hoping to see the face of Mary Bolitho, whom he still loved as a man
should love the woman he hopes to marry, even although he knew her to
be his sister. Each morning, too, he had longed to see the face of his
mother, although he hoped she would not be there. And while he still
declared that nothing could soften his heart against Judge Bolitho, he
felt as though the sight of his face would have helped him.
What were they doing? he wondered, the man whom he had lately learnt
was his father, and his mother, and his half-sister--no, he could not
call her sister even now, and he wondered why it was. When Mr.
Bakewell had finished his speech he heaved a sigh of relief. At least
the worst had been told. All that could be done to hang him had been
done--at least, as far as evidence was concerned. And then there came
back to him the old determination to fight to the bitter end. At least
he had his chance to reply, and he nerved himself for the work he had
to do. He had no idea of time. He had never thought of it. He knew
it was at the beginning of the afternoon session when Mr. Bakewell rose
to address the jury, but he had no thought of the time which had
elapsed. He had been simply listening, listening, as if it were a
matter of life and death--as in reality it was--to the address which
had been made. He was expecting the judge to call upon him to make his
speech for his own defence, and was arranging his thoughts in order to
do so, when the judge turned towards him and asked him if his defence
would take any considerable time.
"Yes," replied Paul, "it will."
"Then we will adjourn the court until to-morrow."
"Perhaps," added the judge, with a wan smile, "you will be glad of
this. It will allow you some little time to make your preparations."
"Thank you, my lord," he replied.
And then he was led away to his cell.
When Paul entered the dock on the following morning he carried with him
a sheaf of papers, the result of the previous night's work. When he
returned to his cell he asked for writing materials, and then for
several hours worked steadily. A strange calm possessed him while he
was doing this, not without a certain sense of enjoyment, grim as the
circumstances were. He was fighting for his own life, and there was a
kind of intellectual pleasure in framing his arguments and in meeting
the statements which Mr. Bakewell had so forcibly expressed in his
final speech. He had always loved a battle of wits, and, terrible as
the circumstances were, the pleasure which an intellectual struggle
gave him was not absent even on this occasion.
When he had concluded writing he was utterly exhausted, but here his
splendid physique came to his aid, and he slept several hours
peacefully. At least he had one satisfaction. Whatever might be the
issue of the terrible day which lay before him, terrible whatever might
happen, he was an innocent man. He had struck no murderous blow, and
he could go down to the grave with a clear conscience, knowing that he
had tried to do what was right under the circumstances. Sometimes a
shadow of doubt came into his mind as to whether his mother were really
guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused, but as he reviewed
the circumstances, and remembered what she had said to him, it seemed
as though a cold hand had gripped his heart, and it convinced him that
it was she in spite of himself. Considering all the events, he could
think of no one else who was likely to commit the deed; and so, while
he determined to fight to the very last, he could at least do his
utmost to keep any shadow of suspicion from falling on her.
Great as the excitement had been on the previous day's trial, it
seemed, if possible, greater now, or rather it was an excitement of a
different nature. Hitherto a sense of strangeness and wonder had
predominated; a morbid curiosity and a desire for sensationalism had
possessed the minds and hearts of those who had witnessed the trial.
But to-day another element was added--an element of terror. On the
previous days there had been a suggestion of a stage trial. Many,
although they had breathlessly followed the evidence given, did not
seem to realise that it might end in death. But that was all over now.
The inwardness of everything, the ghastly issues of the scene, became
tremendously real. All felt that now Paul Stepaside was indeed
fighting for his life. The shadow of the scaffold rested upon him. A
thousand unseen enemies seemed to be there trying to drag him to his
doom. And he, unaided and alone, had to meet not only the terrible
charge which was laid against him, but a kind of fiendish cleverness
with which that charge had been urged. Men held their breath as he
entered the dock; reporters forgot their duty as they watched his face;
the jurymen, bearing in mind the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had
delivered on the previous evening, and believing that nothing could
remove the impression of that speech, looked on him with gloomy
interest. Even the judge, legal machine as he appeared to be, showed
more than ordinary interest and seemed to be wondering what he had to
say for himself.
To all appearance, indeed, Paul was the most self-possessed man in the
court. Pale he was, it is true, but upright, clear-sighted,
determined. Unversed as he was in the intricacies of the law and
possessing none of the experience which characterised the counsel for
the prosecution, Mr. Bakewell felt that here indeed was a foeman worthy
of his steel, and that had he been trained for the bar he would not
have long remained an obscure member of that learned profession.
The formalities of the day were quickly gone through, and Paul rose to
address the jury.
I cannot here give in detail the speech which he delivered, cannot
describe the intensity with which he spoke, although I watched the
trial from day to day. I can only convey a vague impression, not only
of the speech which he delivered, but of the effect of his words. Even
now I can see him standing in the dock, quietly arranging his papers
with firm, steady hands, and then pushing them away as if they could be
of no use to him. I can see the steady light in his eyes; the pale,
clear-cut face; strong, determined features, upright form. I can feel,
too, the tremendous emotion which seemed to overwhelm all present. But
these things cannot be conveyed in cold print; they can only be hinted
at.
He commenced by saying that he stood there accused of the most serious
of charges. It had been urged that he was guilty of murder, and there
could be no doubt that a murder had been committed. It was not a
question of pleading for partial forgiveness. No question of mercy
could be considered. Either he was guilty of murder or he was not, for
undoubtedly the deceased man had been murdered. If he had been guilty
of that murder, then the jury would do right to pronounce that verdict;
if not, then they took upon themselves the responsibility of condemning
an innocent man to death.
"The counsel for the prosecution," urged Paul, "has mentioned something
about giving me the benefit of a doubt. There is no matter of benefit
in it, and I decline to accept the term. It is only a matter of
justice. It is only justice I desire. My lord and gentlemen of the
jury, I have refused to enter the witness-box, not because I desired to
keep back anything in relation to the murder, for in truth I know
absolutely nothing, but because I might be, probably should be, asked
questions on matters on which I desire to remain silent. I appeal to
your understanding in relation to this. There are secret matters--ay,
and sacred matters--in everyone's life which one does not wish to be
discussed by the world at large, and it is for this reason, and this
reason only, that I have declined to go into the witness-box. If it
were simply a matter of dealing with my connection with the death of
the deceased man, I would gladly answer any question that may be asked,
because, as I repeat, I know nothing.
"The learned counsel has also referred to my decision to be my own
defender, and has admitted that I may possibly suffer some disadvantage
because of it. I did so for more than one reason. The first I have
just suggested. No counsel could be of any value to me unless I gave
him my absolute and complete trust. Again I say, there are certain
matters utterly and wholly removed from the crime of which I am accused
which I do not wish to make known. Possibly this may tell against me;
but, gentlemen, when you think of the happenings of the last few days,
when you remember, my lord, the wonderful and unprecedented confession
which was made from the chair you now occupy, a confession which
vitally affects me, you can understand that there are other things in
my life--perfectly innocent, yes, and in a vital sense very
sacred--which I do not wish to confide to any man. More on that
question I will not say. The other reason I have for defending myself
is that while an abler man than myself might be obtained, a more
eloquent man, a far more learned man, I could secure no one who is so
certain of my own innocence as I am myself, and as a consequence no one
could plead with the same earnestness, albeit haltingly, yet no one can
plead with the same conviction that I can. For, my lord and gentlemen,
at the very outset of what I wish to say I must again urge that I know
absolutely nothing of this man's murder. I struck no blow, and am as
far removed from his death as the little children who were born in this
city last night!
"Now, my lord and gentlemen, the whole weight of the accusation brought
against me depends entirely upon circumstantial evidence, and you, my
lord, who are so learned in the law, know full well the value that can
be attached to such evidence. You know that again and again it has
proved to be false. You know one particular case especially, when a
man, who was condemned to die on circumstantial evidence, was three
times brought to the scaffold, and three times the rope broke, and
then, because of what may be called the superstitious feelings of the
community at large, that sentence was reduced to penal servitude for
life. I say you know, my lord, that although that circumstantial
evidence seemed complete, when a renowned thief and murderer was
brought to his trial and condemned to die, he confessed to this very
murder. Moreover, you can see that when a man's life or death depends
upon circumstantial evidence, that evidence must be complete. No link
in the chain must be missing. If it is missing, then it would be a
crime, and worse than a crime, to take away the life of a man because
of it. And I shall show you, my lord and gentlemen, that not only is
the chain of evidence incomplete in this case, but that many links are
wanting in that chain, and therefore it has no strength whatever."
Paul paused here, and for a moment seemed to have forgotten his line of
defence. He turned towards his notes, which he had placed beside him,
as if with the intention of refreshing his memory, and then, like one
angered at his seeming unreadiness, he appeared to make a mighty effort
to gather together his scattered thoughts and to concentrate them. He
gazed around the crowded court, watched the pale, set faces, not only
of the jury, but of the spectators, noted the strained attention of the
barristers and the steady scrutiny of the judge. He seemed for the
moment like a man put upon his mettle and determined to play his part
manfully.
"I would like," he said, "first of all to refer to the question of
motive. The learned counsel has urged that I committed this murder
because of personal hatred. The evidence which he sought to deduce,
and upon which he dwelt almost to the point of tediousness, was that
there was a long-standing feud between the murdered man and myself. He
related incident after incident which went to show that, to say the
least of it, no love was lost between us. I have no word to say
against that evidence, no word to say against his methods of urging it
against me. It was his duty as counsel for the prosecution. But I
must ask you to examine this more closely. It is true that the
murdered man had been my enemy for years. But should I be likely,
because of his enmity, to murder him? Or, even if I belonged to the
class of criminals which he would make me out to belong to, should I
have chosen such an hour to commit that murder? Should I not have
committed it, not in my hour of triumph, but in my hour of defeat?
"It has come out in the evidence that at the first election at Brunford
the deceased man did his utmost to ruin me. He not only tried to
tarnish the name of my mother as well as my own, but he did his best to
ruin me financially. This has been proved, proved beyond a doubt; and
as a result of what he did I lost that election. I say, if I had
intended to murder him, would not that have been the time when I should
have done it? Or again, would it not have been likely that I should
have done it while in the heat of passion? As far as I can remember,
the quarrel, which took place between us on the evening prior to the
murder, has been correctly described. When I left him he struck me
down. Gentlemen, I am not a weak man, but a strong man. If it was my
desire to do him bodily harm, should I not be likely to do it then? We
were there alone. As far as I knew, no eye was watching us, and
naturally my passions would be roused by the cowardly blow he struck
me; but I did nothing. I, so it was said, uttered a threat that I
would be equal with him for this blow which he had struck, and then
went away. Then, the learned counsel has urged, after I had walked
nearly two miles back to my own home, after I had dressed for dinner, I
waited until midnight, and then, with cool calculation, went out to
kill this man. Can anyone in his senses believe such a thing?
Besides, think of another thing. I was in a position to laugh at
Wilson's enmity. I had won an eminent position in the town of my
adoption. I had risen from obscurity to be a member of Parliament for
that town. I had made a speech in the House of Commons which had
attracted notice throughout the whole country. I was the subject of
leading articles in newspapers. What was Wilson's enmity to me? I
could have afforded to have left Brunford altogether. I could have
lived in London, where I need never have seen him. Was I likely,
then--not in a moment of mad passion, mark you--not in resentment for a
coward's blow which had been struck immediately before, but after seven
hours--was I likely to go out into the dead of the night to kill him?
Forgive me for urging this matter, but the question of motive must come
in, and to say that this deed was the outcome of a long personal feud
is, under the circumstances, preposterous. Is this link in the chain
strong enough to hold? Nay, is it a link at all? And does not the
chain break in consequence?"
It was at this point that Paul held both judge and jury strongly. I
know I altogether fail to convey the impression he made. In cold
print, while his words may seem reasonable, and even forcible, they
only give a hint at their power when they were uttered as he uttered
them.
The next point with which he dealt was with that of the knife. This
knife, known to be Paul's, was found driven through Edward Wilson's
heart, driven from behind. And it had been used with great skill by
the counsel for the prosecution. He had considered it from every
standpoint, and it had seemed, at the time, that no one but Paul could
have used it.
"This," said Paul, "is the one definite thing urged against me.
Everything else is pure surmise, but the knife was known to be mine.
The knife was in my office, an office which is always locked when I
have occasion to leave it. Therefore, no one but myself could have
used it. Such is the counsel's argument. Again I ask you to consider
this carefully. Remember that no secret was ever made about my
possessing this knife. It had been sent to me by a customer from
abroad. It had been used as a paper-knife. It had been frequently
seen by those who visited me lying on my office desk. It was not some
secret thing, something about which the world knew nothing. It was
known to be mine by scores of people--please bear that in mind. Then
there is another thing-. It has come out in the evidence that I was
not in the habit of carrying it. It is a sharp, murderous-looking
blade, and it has been examined, my lord, not only by you, but by every
member of the jury. I admit that this knife is mine. I admit all that
my partner, Mr. George Preston, has said about it. But I want you to
consider the tremendous gap between the fact of the knife known to
belong to me, and the accusation that with this knife I murdered Mr.
Edward Wilson. Now, will you please think carefully. It has been
urged that I did this deed in cold blood. It was between three and
four o'clock in the afternoon when I had a quarrel with Wilson and he
struck me down. My servants have given testimony to the fact that I
came home, talked with my mother, went into my study, stayed there for
several hours. Then it is urged that I went out, carrying this knife
with me; and, mark you, they did not see the knife in the house, no one
saw me take it away from the office; but it is urged that I went out,
after several hours' cool and calculated thought, at midnight; that I
caught the murdered man unawares, drove the knife into his body, and
then ran away and left it there. Now, think of this, gentlemen, and
remember that my life or death depends upon the reasonableness of it,
depends upon this link in the chain of circumstantial evidence. It has
been urged again and again that whatever I am, I am not a fool, that I
am capable of careful and connected thought, that I commenced my career
in Brunford in a very small way, and that in a few years I have made it
to be what it is, large and prosperous. It has been urged that I am
far-seeing, careful, calculating, and that as a rule I am not a man who
acts upon sudden impulses. Now, my lord and jury, I ask you, would
such a man as I be likely to do this? I could have understood the
accusation if in the heat of the passion which I naturally felt when
the deceased man struck me a cowardly blow, I had, if I carried such a
knife with me, which I never did, seized it and struck the murderous
blow, and then in a state of panic rushed away for fear of the
consequences. But after several hours had elapsed, during which time I
should have time to think about it, and to realise the results of such
a deed, that I should then, in a cool and calculated fashion, seek out
a victim, strike the blow, and then leave the weapon in the body which
must be inevitably traced to me, is a deed of such madness that I can
only wonder that a gentleman with the erudition of the counsel should
have thought it worth while to mention it!"
From this point Paul went on to deal with another matter, of which the
counsel for the prosecution seemed to have taken no notice, but which,
put as he put it, strengthened his case very considerably.
"I want you to consider the circumstances connected with the accusation
again," he said presently. "It is known that I had only returned from
London the day before. It has come out in the evidence that I wrote a
letter to Wilson, asking him to meet me, and that Wilson replied
refusing to do so. It has also been proved that I waylaid him not far
from his own house, and that we had a quarrel. Concerning the nature
of that quarrel I am not going to speak, but a quarrel there was, this
I admit. Now, please bear in mind that I had only returned from London
the previous day; that I knew nothing of Wilson's possible whereabouts;
that I could have known nothing of his plans. It was impossible for me
to tell what he was going to do, or where he was going to be. It has
also come out in the evidence that I asked certain questions about him
on the afternoon of the day before the murder. I went from one place
to another where he had been, in order to find him--remember this was
not done in secret, but openly--therefore I must have been utterly
ignorant of his movements, or of his plans, except what I openly
gathered that afternoon. Then we had a quarrel. He struck me down,
and I, when I recovered from the blow, rose, said a few words to him,
and walked away. I went back to my own house, and, on the testimony of
the servants, was there the whole evening. I did not go out at all.
It is also admitted that no messenger of any sort came to me that
night, that no letters were received. Please bear these things clearly
in mind. Then I went out at midnight, on a dark night, with the intent
to murder 'him. Now think of the position. Would he not in all
probability be in bed, as far as I knew? Brunford is not a town of
late hours. Ordinarily, except when there is a social gathering, or
something of the sort, people retire to rest between ten and eleven
o'clock. But it is urged I went out with the intention of murdering
him, carrying the knife with me, and yet having no means of even
suspecting that he would be out; and that then I met him by chance, and
having the knife ready, killed him, and left the knife in his body. My
lord, and gentlemen, does not the chain of evidence entirely break? Is
there any connecting link here at all? Can you condemn a man upon such
evidence? Think of the tremendously long arm of coincidence which has
to be imagined before you can connect me with it!
"With regard to the evidence which the counsel for the prosecution has
urged with so much effect: I admit it is true. I was worried and
perplexed that night. I did not utter the words which he has
mentioned, but I do remember walking along a lane at no great distance
from Howden Clough. I was troubled about a personal matter, and, if I
may so put it, a secret matter, a matter which I cannot discuss, but
which does not even by a gossamer thread connect me with the crime of
which I am accused. And if you condemn me on such an evidence, then no
man's life is safe. No man can be worried and perplexed without, under
similar circumstances, being accused of a crime of which he would never
dream!"
Again Paul made the jury feel as he felt, see as he saw. The evident
sincerity of his tones, the force of his language, language which I
have utterly failed to reproduce, carried conviction with every word.
For the time being, at least, they felt that such an accusation
bordered on the edge of the absurd, and to say the least of it, there
was a tremendous gulf which had to be filled up, and that to fill it up
by the belief in the long arm of coincidence, and to commit a man to
the scaffold because of it, would be criminal indeed.
"There's only one point more that I wish to urge," said Paul. "It is
this. It is plain to me that the deceased man was murdered. It is
plain to us all, therefore, that someone must have been guilty of the
deed. Who would be likely to be guilty? The statements which found
credence here in the early part of the trial, that the deceased man had
no enemy beside myself has been shattered and destroyed. It has been
shown that one woman, at least, had reason to hate him with a deadly
hatred, and that case alone throws a tremendous light upon the
character of the deceased man. Far be it from me to throw suspicion
upon any innocent person--I have suffered too much myself to think of
doing such a thing--but even the deceased man's own father has made
terrible admissions. Do these admissions mean nothing? Are they to
count for nothing? That woman whose name has been mentioned, and who,
from the evidence given, could have no connection with this crime, had
a thousand times more reason to hate him than I. May there not be
others? Nay, there must be others----"
At this point Paul, knowing that he was drawing near to the end of what
he had to say, felt that he was indeed fighting for his life, and I
will not endeavour to describe his speech further. Possessing a mind
of more than ordinary clearness, having the gift of language to a
marked degree, and also having the strongest motive to make the most of
the facts which stood out clearly before him, he spoke almost like a
man inspired. With trembling voice, he was outwardly calm in
appearance. He again reviewed the evidence, showed its weakness, tore
the sophistries of Mr. Bakewell to pieces, and moved the hearts of all
present by his passionate appeal. More than once the spectators broke
in applause, while the barristers nudged each other with nods of
approval, as he made some special point in his defence. And presently,
when he sat down, everyone felt that Paul had saved his own life, that
he had fought a great battle and won it, that he not only did not
commit the deed of which he was accused, but that he was utterly
incapable of it, and that he would leave the court amid shouts of
triumph. Even to this day his speech is spoken of as one of the most
triumphant efforts ever made in the Manchester Assize Courts.
But this was only for a time. It is true he had seemingly answered Mr.
Bakewell in every point. It is true, too, that it seemed a crime
beyond all description to pronounce the Verdict of guilty upon him, but
naturally it was an _ex-parte_ Statement, it was the speech of a clever
man fighting for his life, who naturally did the best with the material
at his disposal. He had been talking for nearly two hours, and during
that time all were under the spell not only of his words but of his
personality.
When he had finished, the judge waited for perhaps a minute, and seemed
to be looking at his notes, and presently all eyes were transferred
from the prisoner's dock to the judge's chair. What had this keen
legal machine to say? Throughout Paul's speech he had listened with
close attention, and had evidently admired the points he had made. But
as we have said, Judge Branscombe was a lawyer, a lawyer to the finger
tips, and he was one who thought much of outward facts, and little of
what might be probable or not probable. Long associated with the law
as he was, he had known many cases where criminals had done the most
unlikely things, and where facts had scattered theories to the winds.
He had won eminence at the Bar because of this attitude of mind. He
cared nothing about probabilities. He cared little about theories, but
dealt with facts.
He began his summing-up by speaking of the unusual way in which the
trial had been conducted. The prisoner had elected to be his own
advocate, and that, as a consequence, he, the judge, had not been so
particular about formalities as he would have been under different
circumstances. He had allowed matters to be introduced in the
cross-examination which were not strictly evidence. He also referred
in high terms to the prisoner's defence. He spoke of him as a man of
more than ordinary intellectual ability, who, with the gift of an
orator, had played upon the various emotions of the jury as a clever
musician plays with an instrument of which he is a master. And then,
little by little, he went back to what he called "the cold hard facts
of the case." From the pure lawyer's standpoint, his summing-up was
perhaps just, but from the standpoint of the prisoner it was deadly.
With a cleverness of which Paul did not believe anyone capable, he wore
away the effect of what he had said, until, as it seemed to him, his
speech seemed to be like that of another counsel for the prosecution.
And yet, as I said, no one could accuse him of being unfair. He
admitted the responsibility of the jury, spoke of the tremendous Issues
at stake, and seemed desirous of guiding them into right paths. For
nearly an hour he spoke, and then, amidst an excitement which was
painful in the extreme, the jury went away to consider their verdict.
Minute after minute passed away, while everyone waited in painful
suspense for the jurymen to return. The old feeling of uncertainty had
come back to the spectators, the barristers, who had been so eagerly
listening to the case, discussed in whispers what the probable result
would be, and more than one woman had to be carried out of the court in
a state of collapse. Men sat with hard, set faces, scarcely daring to
move. How long they were away I do not know, but it seemed to all
present like an eternity.
Presently the foreman of the jury appeared, and the judge returned to
his chair.
"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to the verdict?"
"No, we are not agreed."
It was as though a mighty sob arose from the throats of all present.
The judge, who wore an uneasy look as he reentered the court, seemed
perturbed. A look of eager expectation was on the faces of the
barristers. As for Paul, he became instinct with new life. His case
was not hopeless--they were not agreed. The fiendishly clever speech
of Mr. Bakewell and the deadly summing-up of the judge had not secured
a verdict of guilty. He felt almost like a conqueror. Hope was in his
heart. He would live even yet. The judge looked at his watch, as if
in doubt what to do, but it was evident that he quickly made up his
mind.